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Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Snapshots Birthday Bash!

Today is the one-year anniversary of the publication of
Patricia Lynne’s Snapshots. To celebrate, she’s having a big birthday bash for
the book. I’ve known Patricia since before Ramblings of a Daydreamer became an
official book blog. We met in 2011 through the A to Z Blogging Challenge, and
it was right around the time I was toying with the idea of writing reviews for
the blog, plus I had just made the huge, life-changing decision to self-publish
my first novel. Because I’ve known Patricia for so long and because she’s been
a huge support and a great friend over the last 2+ years, I’m really excited to
be part of Snapshots' Birthday Bash!

I am a real
person: heedless of a childhood spent under the supervision of an old man I
only know as Master.

“You belong to me.”

I am a real
person: regardless of my teenage years bound by violence as the adoptive son of
the Victory Street Gang's leader.

“You will obey me.”

I am a real
person: despite the visions I see in others' eyes. Snapshots of their futures.

“You will cower before me.”

I am a real
person: my life will be my own. I belong to no one.

“You. Are. MINE.”

Snapshots Excerpt

Tyler
and Darryl huddled over the kitchen table, talking in hushed voices.
Around me, people armed themselves in preparation for the next
retaliation. No one seemed notice me. Was I needed anymore? Wanted? What
if I was being abandoned again? Fear rolled through me at the thought.

“Cyc, come here.”

I
jumped to my feet, grateful for the attention, yet dreading what it
meant. As the SOS attacks continued, Tyler’s reliance on my gift rose.
Nothing was done or approved until I took a look. If I saw his plan go
bad, he scrapped it and moved on to the next.

Ten
minutes and a pounding headache later, I stumbled outside. In a shaded
spot by some trashcans behind the house, I found a place to curl up.
Each throb of pain made the world rock and colors blur together. I
buried my head in my arms to hide the tears as they started to fall.

“I’m
a real person,” I whispered in a shaky voice. “Pop wouldn’t use me, not
like Father did. He’s only having me look so more people don’t die.”

Mine.

The
voice echoed around me and footsteps crunched on gravel. Terror
propelled me to my feet. My fingers curled around the gun Tyler ordered
me to carry. The barrel shook as I snapped it up and aimed. Amber stood
at the end, her caramel skin whiter than mine.

Her voice trembled, barely audible. “Cyclop…”

The
fear melted in an instant. I lowered the gun and blew out a breath of
relief. Amber didn’t move, fearfully watching the gun. Embarrassment
crept up on me when I looked at it.

“The safety is on.”

“I’d still rather keep my distance,” she replied.

I
tucked the gun into the back of my pants. “I don’t care for guns
either. The sound reminds me of… bad memories from when I was little.
Tyler insisted with everything going on.”

“I
saw on the news there were some arrests.” She inched closer, still
looking wary as her gazed scanned over me. “Are you okay? You look like
you’ve been crying.”

I quickly wiped my eyes, forcing a smile. “Naw,
I get headaches and they make my eyes water.” The look on her face said
I wasn’t fooling anyone. I hung my head. “Yeah. Things lately have been
stressful.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Uncertainty
clenched my stomach. I never willingly told anyone about my gift. Those
who knew were people Tyler trusted and told. Or I hadn’t been able to
avoid their gaze and my secret came out. I didn’t want to hide from
Amber or lie to her. I wanted to trust her.

But how did I show her in a way that didn’t force eye contact, yet showed her I was telling the truth?

She
backed away when I pulled the gun, her eyes widening in fear. I ignored
her reaction and ejected the magazine. The metal was cool on the palm
of my hand. The gun crumpled as easily as paper when I closed my fingers
around it. When I opened my hand, it was a misshapen ball of metal. I
offered it to her.

Her fingers shook as she took the hunk of metal. Disbelief and wonder played across her face. “How?”

Fear lodged in my throat and I worked to speak around it. “There’s a reason I don’t have birth records. I-I wasn’t meant to be thought of as a person. I was an object to be experimented with.”

Patricia
Lynne never set out to become a writer. In fact, she never considered it an
option during high school and college. She was more of an art and band geek.
Some stories are meant to be told and now she can't stop writing. Patricia
lives with her husband in Michigan, hopes one day to have what will resemble a
small petting zoo and has a fondness for dying her hair the colors of the
rainbow.

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